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one.
Rooster is tired as absolute hell of Hangman’s toothpick habit.
It’s a week after the mission, and Rooster’s seen Hangman without a toothpick maybe twice in those seven days.
He wants to kiss the man. He also wants to pop him in the mouth. The toothpick doesn’t help with either problem.
“You stab yourself in the mouth with that thing like twice a week, right?” he asks as he watches Hangman and Coyote fuck around at the dartboard.
“What, the dart?” Hangman says, smirking around the godforsaken toothpick.
Coyote snorts.
Rooster rolls his eyes, not that Hangman can see him from his seat behind them. “The toothpick, asshole.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Bradshaw,” Hangman says as he hits the bullseye again.
“How-,” Rooster starts to protest, but Hangman cuts him off.
“I can hear it in your voice, sweetheart.”
“Bite me, Bagman.”
“Not in Penny’s bar, Bradshaw, I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Hell, I’m not either, Seresin. I’d at least have the decency to take you out to the parking lot,” Rooster says, nonchalant in a way that he doesn’t feel at all, not at the thought of getting Hangman alone.
Coyote hip checks Hangman out of the way so he can take his turn. “I hate both of y’all. No, Rooster, he’s gotten good at the stupid toothpick flipping trick. His family despairs of him.”
Phoenix sits down next to Rooster, handing him a beer. “What are we talking about, fellas? Why does Hangman’s family despair of him? Oh, shit, nice throw, Coyote.”
“Damn good shot, Javy,” Hangman says. “Another round?”
“I got you both beer,” Phoenix offers.
Coyote puts the darts back and makes grabby hands for his bottle as he sits next to her. “Consider our business concluded.”
Hangman shakes his head. “Abandoned for a Miller Lite. The disloyalty. Well, Trace, they despair of me for a lot of reasons, but most of all ‘cause I suck cock.”
Rooster almost chokes on his beer. “That was not what we were talking about,” he says as he wipes his mouth. Like, yeah, he knows that about Hangman, but he tries not to actively think about it. In public, at least.
Hangman laughs and comes over to whack Rooster on the back and take his own beer from Phoenix.
Phoenix sighs. “I regret asking.”
“We were talking about his stupid toothpicks!” Rooster protests.
“That could be interpreted as ‘what that mouth do?,’” Coyote points out.
“I need new friends,” Phoenix sighs again. She takes a long drink from her beer bottle. “Your family hates the toothpicks, Seresin?”
Hangman takes the only available seat, the one next to Rooster, close enough that Rooster can feel the heat of his thigh.
Rooster takes a deep breath and another drink.
“My mama says it’s vulgar, my grandmama says it’s common, whatever that means, and my sister says it’s red as all hell,” Hangman says. He stretches his arm out on the back of Rooster’s chair.
“One, they’re right. Two, what the fuck are you doing?” Rooster asks, trying not to lean back into his arm.
“I mean, you were asking questions about what he puts in his mouth. Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Coyote says with a grin.
Phoenix pinches the bridge of her nose. “One night. One night without whatever all this is. My kingdom for one night.”
“There’s no all this!” Rooster protests. Like a liar.
Hangman takes his arm back, slides off his chair and goes back to the dart board. Rooster tries not to feel cold.
“Of course not, Rooster,” Hangman says, just short of condescendingly. “I could never bring a yankee home, and I respect you too much to hit it and quit it.”
He makes another ridiculous shot. Bullseye. Again. God, Rooster wants him, and he can’t stand it.
Well. Rooster has two options here. Tell Hangman he doesn’t need his respect, or. Tell him that Bradley Bradshaw is no damn yankee. He takes a deep breath. Hell no, he’s not doing either of those. He’s almost positive Hangman would be down for a quick fuck, but he might actually die if he got Hangman in his bed once then never again.
He’s not anywhere near wanting Hangman to take him home to meet the family, not yet, but he thinks, maybe one day. Maybe one day, they could get it together enough to make a solid try.
So Rooster doesn’t say anything. This is a piece of information to hold close, until the time is right.
Phoenix raises an eyebrow at Rooster’s silence. She knows he’s from Biloxi, even came with him to visit his aunt while they were both stationed in Pensacola. “Bradley’s -,” she starts.
“Removing himself from this narrative,” Rooster says, voice firm.
Phoenix looks at him sideways, but she doesn’t say anything.
Hangman looks back, gaze falling on Rooster in a way he doesn’t know how to interpret.
“Bob’s looking for somebody to beat at pool,” Hangman says. Offers. A week ago, he wouldn’t have done that. He would’ve gone in for the kill.
Rooster takes the out. “Nat, come for moral support?”
“I’ll come to talk to Bob. I need another actual adult.”
The sound of Hangman’s laughter follows them to the pool table.
“So. What the fuck was that?” Phoenix asks, stopping just out of Bob’s earshot.
Rooster fiddles with his aviators where they’re tucked into the neck of his shirt. “He says he can’t take a yankee home, I tell him I’m a good southern boy, and then what? I don’t want to overplay my hand. Not yet.”
Phoenix shakes her head at him. “You’re sitting on a bad boy piece of information, Bradshaw. A bad boy piece of information.”
“You and Bob watch too many Tik Toks,” Rooster tells her. “He’s a bad influence.”
“Uh huh,” Phoenix says. She’s grinning at him. She always has been able to see right through him. “You’re playing the long game? Big shocker there.”
“Go away,” Rooster groans. He doesn’t mean it, and she knows it.
She laughs and goes to lean against the pool table next to Bob, giving Rooster a few seconds to contemplate the absurdity of the situation before he joins them.
two.
Fanboy, Payback, Phoenix, Bob, and Coyote are half an hour late coming back from the grocery store with supplies for an impromptu cookout, leaving Rooster to try and fail to keep from watching Hangman sprawl across his couch.
“Get your boots off of my fuckin’ coffee table, cowboy,” Rooster says, smacking Hangman’s feet. He needs him to just. Take up less fucking room.
“Christ, Bradshaw, sweet talk a fella before you go right into impact play,” Hangman complains, setting his feet back on the ground.
Rooster uses every ounce of willpower in his body not to think about slapping Jake Seresin across the face and then kissing the sting away.
“In your dreams, Hangman,” Rooster says, forcing levity into his voice.
Hangman shrugs. “You got me there.”
“I doubt you’re even into that,” Rooster says before he can stop himself.
Shit. The last thing he needs is for Hangman to know that Rooster’s spent a not insignificant amount of time thinking about what Hangman might like in bed. Because he has, he definitely has, and he’s come to the conclusion that under all the longhorn bravado and the barbecue flavored chip on his shoulder, Hangman might like it sweet. Fuck, no, now is not the time for that runaway train of thought.
“You’re probably vanilla as hell,” Rooster says, desperately trying to salvage the situation.
Hangman just sprawls more, legs spread and arms across the back of Rooster’s couch. “I don’t kiss and tell, Rooster. I’ve got some raisin’. Well. Some raisin’,” he says with a wide grin.
“I know you’re trying to do a double entendre there, but equating how you were raised with the state of your dick is weird as hell,” Rooster says.
Don’t think about his dick. Don’t think about his dick.
Hangman’s grin shifts to a smirk. “I was tryin’ to imply that I was partly well mannered and partly wild, but it’s nice to know where your mind goes first.”
Rooster feels like he’s 14 again, caught staring at the starting pitcher on his baseball team. At least then he had been able to play it off as tracking his pitch count.
“You’re exhausting,” Rooster says. He leans back in his armchair. “I wish they’d get back here and give me the damn burgers Mickey promised me.”
Hangman frowns. “Fanboy is fuckin’ this bull?”
Rooster lets out a surprised laugh. He’s never heard quite that iteration of the phrase, but his Great-Uncle Jimmy used to say “I’m fuckin’ this chicken; you’re just holdin’ the legs.” His Great-Aunt Linda hated it.
“No, Fanboy’s not in charge of actually grilling. Payback is. It was Fanboy’s idea, though.”
“Surprised you knew what I meant,” Hangman says. “I’m glad, though. Payback can throw down at the grill.”
Rooster shrugs. He could say that he’s from Mississippi, that he knows a southern colloquialism when he hears one, but no. Not right now. He’s comfortable on his proverbial perch. “Context clues. Yeah, I know he can, that’s why I agreed to this.”
Hangman nods, quiet for once in his life. God, he looks good, still like that for a second, t-shirt stretched across his chest, cowboy cut Wranglers tight on his thighs. Fuck, Wranglers were a formative part of Rooster’s sexuality. They weren’t as common down on the coast, but when he’d visit his grandparents in Meridian, he was constantly checking ass in the Wal-Mart, at the rodeo, on GAC, which his MiMi kept on 24/7. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a pair look better than they do on Jake Seresin.
“Glad you did,” Hangman says, voice pitched a little lower than the second before, knocking Rooster out of his reverie.
Rooster has maybe a beat to think of a response before the door opens loudly, pilots and groceries pouring into his house. “Alright, Hangman, let’s make ourselves useful.”
Hangman stands, taking longer than a man who tops out at just six feet ought to, or maybe Rooster’s brain just slows time down to take him in.
“Lemme at them baked bean ingredients,” Hangman calls out. “Y’all are fixin’ to learn today!”
I cannot stand to learn one more fucking thing today, Rooster thinks as he watches Hangman walk to the kitchen. Besides, he already knows how to make baked beans.
three.
Bob dips, is the thing.
Rooster grew up around a lot of folks that did, uncles and cousins and family friends, and his granddaddy, but only in the truck, not in his grandmama’s house. He never has done it himself, but he grew up playing baseball and stealing kisses from boys as well as girls, so yeah. He knows it tastes like shit.
He’s not overly grossed out by spit bottles and dip cups, but he knows a lot of people are. What’s weird, though, is that Hangman seems to hate it, and he must have been around it as much as or more than Rooster was growing up.
Sometimes when Bob has a dip in, Hangman finds a way to either get busy with something, pool or darts or conversation, or slip away for a while. Other times, he doesn’t seem to notice, even if he’s sitting right next to Bob.
Tonight is one of the times that he seems bothered. He stops in the middle of a game of pool to go outside, and for some reason that Rooster would rather not think too hard about, he follows him.
“Hey,” he says, dropping down next to Hangman on the bench he’s occupying.
Hangman does his stupid toothpick flip. Rooster bites the inside of his cheek, pointedly looking at green eyes. Not that those are any less distracting.
“Hey yourself, Bradshaw. You lonely without me already?” Hangman asks with a grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Rooster would know. He can’t quite look away from them.
“Yeah, yeah, I was wasting away,” Rooster retorts. “Look, man, are you okay? If Bob’s dipping bothers you that much, you know you can tell him. He’s the sweetest guy in the world. You know he’d take it outside.”
Rooster knocks his knee against Hangman’s without really planning on it.
“You noticed that?” Hangman asks with a frown. “Shit. It’s not Bob’s problem. I can deal with it.”
His jaw is clenched, more than a conversation about Bob’s tobacco habits warrants, Rooster thinks.
“It’s only sometimes,” Rooster says. “That it bothers you.”
Hangman sighs. “Bob is usually an original Skoal man, but sometimes he gets wintergreen, and I can’t fucking stand it, alright?”
Rooster watches Hangman gnaw at his toothpick. “You can say something to Bob. I know he doesn’t prefer a certain flavor enough to not care that it makes you want to be somewhere else.”
“What am I supposed to say? That every time I smell wintergreen dip, I think of every mistake my daddy ever made?” Hangman says, voice quieter than Rooster’s ever heard it.
“Shit, Jake,” Rooster says after several seconds of surprised silence. He sighs. “I mean, I get it. My grandma’s dad, he was a piece of fuckin’ work, from what I gathered. She always hated the smell of cheap whiskey because of him. Not that your dad’s like that,” he adds hurriedly.
They didn’t talk about that when Rooster was growing up. He didn’t know the man’s name until he was in high school. It wasn’t a small thing, what he’d told Hangman, but he felt like he needed to give him something back.
Hangman doesn’t respond. He shifts a little closer to Rooster. Their arms brush together.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I don’t know. It’s complicated. He’s complicated. We’re not estranged or anything. Things are just. Strained.”
Rooster leans into Hangman’s side. Just a little. The tiniest bit. “I can talk to Bob. I’m sure he can get by with regular Skoal. Or maybe mint wouldn’t be as bad for you? Hell, they’ve got a bunch of flavors, and they all taste like garbage.”
Hangman shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll get over it. What do you know about dip anyway, Bradshaw? Didn’t think they did much of that out here.”
“I played baseball for a long time,” Rooster says. “Besides, I didn’t always live here.”
He could tell him. It would be easy. It’s not even a big thing, really, but it feels like it to him. Like once he acknowledges that they’re sitting there, one southern queer to another, it’ll be too much, too fast, break whatever fragile thing is between them right now.
“Hmm,” Hangman says. He stands up, dusts off his pants. “That’s right, flight school in Pensacola. You were stationed in Corpus Christi for a while too, yeah?”
Rooster just looks up at him, blinking like a fool. He didn’t expect Hangman to remember that. He’d only told him once, years ago.
“What? I remember things. Important things. Anyway,” Hangman says. “You wanna help me beat Fanboy and Payback at pool?”
He holds out a hand to pull Rooster up, and God help him, Rooster takes it. He thinks this is Hangman’s repressed cowboy way of saying thank you. Of saying he cares too.
“Yeah,” he says. “We can do that.”
four.
Rooster and Jake have been in the cab of Jake’s truck for an hour on their way to pick up a part for the Bronco, a favor that Rooster never would have asked, before. Actually, he hadn’t asked Jake now. He volunteered, and don’t that beat all, as Rooster’s mama would say.
Fuck, the Daggers have only been together for six months, but he’ll be damned if he hasn’t fallen more infuriatingly for Jake Seresin every day. What’s really thrown him for a loop has been the last few months, since their talk on the beach outside the Hard Deck. Jake’s still infuriating, sure, but. In a way that’s almost sweet. In a way that Rooster likes.
He calls Rooster a showboat when he plays the piano, but he comes over to watch now. He buys Rooster drinks, just because, then makes fun of his taste in beer. When Bob has a wintergreen dip day, Jake tells Rooster to go outside with him, always assuming that Rooster’s going to say yes, and they just. Walk. Talk. Rooster fucking loves those walks.
As much as he hates it when something’s wrong with the Bronco, Rooster is secretly delighted to have a new excuse to spend time alone with Jake. It’s something he craves but doesn’t feel like he can ask for, at least not too often.
Jake’s truck isn’t what one what might expect. Rooster’s first guess was a brand new F-150, flashy as hell. He was half right. It’s a 2016 F-150. With a fucking bench seat. Rooster’s a Mississippi boy of a certain age. He can’t see a bench seat without thinking “somebody ought to slide to the middle.”
The way Jake’s driving, right arm on the seat, left hand on the steering wheel, is sending Rooster back to high school and driving him insane. His fingertips keep just brushing Rooster’s shoulders, and it’s taking every ounce of discipline in his body to keep from cuddling right up against Jake’s side.
Hell, Jake might let him, but he might also make it a joke, and Rooster cannot allow that to happen. He’s got to wait for the right time. It’ll come. He’s sure of it.
Jake squeezes Rooster’s shoulder, and Rooster forces himself not to press into the contact.
“You hungry, Bradshaw?” Jake asks.
“Little bit,” Rooster says with a shrug.
“Open up the glovebox and hand me a Slim Jim, and you can have anything in there you want,” Jake offers.
One of the things that Rooster desperately wishes he didn’t find endearing about Hangman — about Jake, who is he fucking kidding at this point — is that he snacks like a hillbilly 12 year old.
Nabs and Slim Jims and pork rinds and peanuts in Coke, which is one he hasn’t seen since his Great-Aunt Mary Neill died 5 years ago. Stuff Rooster has mostly grown out of, unless he’s having a really bad day.
Rooster grins and opens up the glovebox, hands Jake his Slim Jim. “You’ve got one pack of cheese and peanut butter Nabs in here. Can I have them, or would you rather I eat something else?”
Jake nods. His fingers brush Rooster’s shoulder again. “You can have ‘em if you’ll give me one. Wait a damn minute, did you just call them Nabs?”
Rooster laughs. “Yeah. Snack cracker sandwiches, originally made by Nabisco.”
He knows damn well that people in California don’t call them Nabs. It just slipped out.
“First, open my Slim Jim. Second, who gave you that information?” Jake asks.
Rooster rolls his eyes and rips open Jake’s Slim Jim. Jake takes his arm away to grab it. Rooster wishes he wouldn’t.
“I know lots of things,” Rooster deflects.
He could just say “I grew up in Biloxi with my mom and my great-aunt, and I spent summers and holidays in Meridian with my grandparents,” but he’s kept it under his hat this long. He knows he can hold out for a better payoff.
“Yeah, Bradshaw, you’re a wealth of knowledge,” Jake says with a grin. He takes a bite of his Slim Jim. “Gimme that Nab, son.”
Rooster tears open the pack and holds one out.
Jake leans closer and opens his mouth.
“Seriously?” Rooster asks. Not that he’s actually opposed, this is just. New.
“Got one hand on the wheel and one hand holding my snack. Help me out here, Bradley,” Jake says, grin cocky like he knows Rooster’s going to do it.
Rooster absolutely is. He loves that stupid grin, and he loves it when Jake says his name.
He scoots closer and feeds Jake a fucking Nab. It’s a two bite situation. Rooster knows this from youthful trial and error. Jake’s lip brushes his knuckle with the first bite, and the pad of his thumb on the second.
“Thanks, darlin’,” Jake says.
Rooster swallows hard. That sounded matter of fact. Not over the top. Not leering. He sits back, not bothering to move all the way to his side.
“Is there a reason that you couldn’t have eaten your Slim Jim first? One hand on your snack, really?”
Jake laughs and eats his Slim Jim. It takes him maybe 45 seconds. He drops the wrapper in the cup holder, then lays his arm across the seat back again.
“Well, I’d rather have the other around you, but you’re all the way over there,” Jake teases.
Or. Maybe he’s not teasing. Not entirely.
“You wanna put your arm around me, Seresin?” Rooster asks.
He’s so careful with his tone, no challenge, no bite. Just an honest question. If he pushes too far, Jake will make a cutting joke, and neither of them will get what they want. He watches Jake, hand tightening on the wheel, eyes looking straight ahead.
“If I’m bein’ honest, yeah, I wouldn’t mind it.”
Rooster grins. “Well, if we’re being honest, I wouldn’t either.”
Jake brushes his fingers across the nape of Rooster’s neck. “Get your ass over here, Bradley. But try not to get your cracker crumbs on my good jeans.”
“I’ll do my best,” Rooster says dryly, but he moves as fast as he can without embarrassing himself, Nabs temporarily abandoned on the far seat.
When Jake settles his hand on the back of Rooster’s neck and leaves it there, warm and heavy, Rooster lets himself relax into it.
“You wanna talk about this?” he asks.
Jake tightens his grip briefly, squeezing just the tiniest bit. “I do not,” he says, but he’s smiling, and it reaches his eyes.
“Fair enough,” Rooster says.
He thinks about his secret, about how confessing his hometown has tangled up with confessing his feelings, and more importantly, his intentions. Serious intentions. They’re not there yet, but they’re closer. Soon, Rooster thinks. Soon.
five.
Rooster’s running late for movie night. It’s his own damn fault, trying on shirt after shirt, changing his jeans and his belt and his shoes like a kid on his first date.
He usually doesn’t put this much effort into movie night, but Phoenix bullied Jake into hosting this time. It’s been two weeks since they cuddled for half an hour, then an hour and a half on the trip back.
They haven’t talked about it, but. Jake’s been more touchy since. His hand on Rooster’s shoulder, his thigh against Rooster’s on a couch or bench, the toe of Jake’s boot against Rooster’s calf under a table.
Rooster wants it to happen again, the cuddling, and he thinks that maybe, in the dark during the movie, he might be brave enough to either ask or put his own arm around Jake. He really fucking likes that idea, and he wants to look good when he gets there, before the lights go out.
He pretty much jumps out of the Bronco, which is running great now, partly thanks to Jake, and runs up the driveway. The door opens before he can knock.
“You’re late,” Jake says, leaning against the doorjamb.
He looks so fucking hot, limbs loose and languid and leaning into Rooster’s space.
“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster says, bracing his hand against the door. He holds himself just short of touching Jake. “You look good.”
“I am good, Rooster,” Jake says with a smirk. He reached out and tugs at Rooster’s shirt tail. “I’m very good. In fact, I’m too good to be true.”
Rooster shakes his head. “You could just say thank you every once in a while, you know.” He lets Jake tug him in closer, just half an inch or so.
“Now, Bradshaw, where’s the fun in that?” Jake teases. “What took you so long? Got too busy primping, pretty boy?”
“So you think I’m pretty,” Rooster points out. He moves his hand to rest next to Jake’s head. Jake lets him.
“Well, hell, boy, if you’re just figuring that out now, I don’t know what to tell you.” Jake licks his lips, and Rooster can’t help it. He stares.
Jake smiles, eyes crinkling in a way that makes Rooster want to hold him tight and never let him go. “See somethin’ you like, hoss?”
Hoss. Rooster rolls his eyes. God help him, he loves the way southern men flirt with each other.
“Darlin’, I like everything I see,” Rooster says.
Jake doesn’t respond, swallows hard. Rooster dares to move his hand closer, swipe his thumb along Jake’s neck, then —
“For fuck’s sake, if y’all don’t get in this house,” Payback says from a foot away, startling both of them.
“Christ, Fitch,” Jake swears. “Give us a warning next time, fuck.”
“With that song and dance y’all were doing, you wouldn’t have noticed. I cannot stand southern queers. Learn to flirt fucking normally, I beg you,” Payback says, but he’s laughing.
Rooster steps into the house, brushing against Jake maybe more than strictly necessary. He gives Payback a gentle shove. “You’re a bisexual from South Carolina, are you not?”
“Oh, you’re gonna make me say it? Fine. White southern queers. Y’all are a disaster. Callin’ each other hoss and boy and shit. Ridiculous. Come sit down so we can watch this fucking movie,” Payback says, still laughing as he walks away.
“Rooster’s from California,” Jake calls after him.
Rooster looks at Jake. It feels like a lie to let that stand. “No, I’m not.”
Jake frowns. “You told Omaha you were born here when he was on his astrology kick.”
That was years ago, when they were first at TOPGUN. Rooster smiles. “I didn’t know you were paying attention. My dad was stationed in California when I was born, but my parents weren’t from here, and I didn’t grow up here.”
“Where are you from, then?” Jake asks, curious.
Rooster looks at him, at this beautiful man and the progress they’ve made, so much faster than Rooster could have hoped for, and decides he won’t evade a direct question.
“I’m from -“ he starts to say, but he’s interrupted by Coyote’s voice from the living room.
“We will drag y’all in here!”
Jake sighs. “He means it. Come sit with me? I made them leave the smaller couch for us.”
“You gonna cuddle me, Jake?” Rooster asks, already following Jake into the other room.
“Son, I’m gonna cuddle you so hard,” Jake promises.
Payback groans loudly from the other couch between Coyote and Fanboy. Bob and Phoenix are squished on there too, five people on a four person couch. Rooster grins. Jake really did plan this out.
“This is what I fucking mean,” Payback says. “Sit down and stop talking.”
“This is my house,” Jake points out, dropping down onto the couch and pulling Rooster down with him.
“And it’s Nat’s movie night, which was supposed to start twenty minutes ago,” Bob says, looking pointedly at Rooster.
“Sorry,” Rooster says, but he’s not. Not with Jake’s arm wrapped around him.
“I’ll forgive you because you two look cute right now, but you’re on popcorn duty if we run out,” Phoenix says.
God, she looks smug. Rooster may never live this down. Jake shifts, warm against Rooster’s side. Yeah, Rooster thinks, I’m good with that.
“Fine,” he agrees.
Fanboy tosses them a box of candy. “Great. I’m turning off the lights. Everybody shut the fuck up. You are real cute, though, but that’s a discussion for later.”
Rooster settles his hand on Jake’s knee as the lights go out. Everyone in this room is terrible, and he loves them all.
plus one.
Rooster and Jake are the last ones at the Hard Deck the next night. Penny and Mav headed out, leaving Rooster the keys.
Rooster hopes they work out this time, and maybe they will, but he’s pretty sure Ice is still going to get in the way, even now that he’s gone.
Mav and Ice had tried on and off for years, but their timing was always wrong. Mav would rush in too fast. Ice would wait too long. It scared the shit out of 16 year old Bradley, to know you could love someone that much and still not make it work. When Ice and Sarah got married when Bradley was 17, he was happy for them, but it fucked Mav up, even if he would never admit.
It had made his mama so sad, even as sick as she was. Despite herself and all of his flaws, she adored Maverick. Rooster’s not blind, he knows how similar Mav and Jake are. He really thinks she would have liked him too.
Maybe that’s part of why Rooster cares so much about timing now, about intentions, about being sure. It’s taken a while, but he wants Jake in a serious, permanent way. He doesn’t want to fuck that up by thinking with his dick, or by not thinking at all.
“So, Piano Man,” Jake says, bringing Rooster back to the present. “What old man songs are you gonna play for me tonight?”
“Fuck off, your favorite song is Silver Wings,” Rooster points out, poking at Jake’s hip.
He’s right next to the piano, leaning up against it. He never used to get this close. Rooster likes it.
“How do you even know that?” Jake asks, grabbing Rooster’s hand in his.
Rooster adjusts his hand, tangles their fingers together. Jake allows it.
“You hum it in your truck,” Rooster says. “It’s one of my Aunt Geri’s favorites. Well, my mom’s aunt, actually, but she’s only like four years older than my mom was. She gets so mad if I call her my great-aunt.”
Jake rubs his thumb across Rooster’s knuckles. “You’re close to her?”
Rooster’s torn between looking at Jake’s pretty face and their joined hands. God, he’s holding Jake Seresin’s hand. A part of him has wanted this since the day they met.
“Yeah,” he answers. “After my dad died, we moved back to my mom’s hometown, but that was where they met, and she couldn’t deal with it everyday, so we moved in with my aunt on the coast. School district was better there anyway. I was only three, so I don’t really remember before.”
Jake squeezes Rooster’s hand. “Sounds like a lady with great music taste. So, you gonna play me a song or sit here holdin’ my hand?”
Rooster smiles, absolutely thrilled that the second option exists now. “You tell me, darlin’. We can do whatever you want.”
“Careful, there, son,” Jake says. He settles his other hand on Rooster’s shoulder. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might think you’re sweet on me.”
“I am sweet on you,” Rooster says.
‘You big dummy’ goes unsaid.
Jake’s quiet for a second, but he doesn’t take his hands away. Rooster considers that a win.
“What kind of sweet on me?” Jake asks. “Quick hookup right here sweet on me? Take it back to my place sweet on me? Hell, call me tomorrow sweet on me?”
His jaw is clenched, and Rooster can feel the hand on his shoulder tangle in the fabric of his shirt. Jake’s not fucking around. He’s asking, dead serious, and it’s costing him something to do it.
Rooster wraps his free hand around Jake’s hip, keeping him close.
“You remember about a week after the mission, you said you couldn’t take a yankee home, and you respect me too much to hit it and quit it?”
Jake winces. “I didn’t mean that. Whatever you want, it can be on the table. Although. I don’t intend to hit it and quit it, unless that’s what you want from me.”
Rooster pushes back the piano bench and stands up, tugging Jake against him. “Jake. Hangman,” he says with a grin, lets his mama’s twang creep into his vowels. “I’m from Biloxi.”
Jake blinks, then suddenly, Rooster’s being kissed.
It’s light, chaste even, but it’s so fucking good, Jake warm against him, lips against his, the slightest rasp of stubble against his cheek.
“You mean what I think you mean?” Jake asks, breath warm against Rooster’s ear.
“I mean that I’m ready to try to be a man you can take home to your mama,” Rooster says.
Jake pulls back a little, shakes his head. “I cannot fuckin’ believe you’ve been holdin’ out on me like this, baby, what the fuck?”
Rooster shrugs, hooks his finger in Jake’s belt loop. “You know me, sweetheart. Always waitin’ for the right time.”
He lets Jake hear his real accent, the weird coastie-hills hybrid that he tries to hide.
“Can’t fuckin’ stand you, Bradshaw,” Jake says, then steals another kiss. “That’s what you really sound like? No more hiding from me, boy, you got it?”
Jake’s hands are so gentle on him, one in his hair and one on his hip. There were entire years where Rooster thought they’d never have this, that Jake would be his worst missed opportunity. Then the mission happened. Jake saved his life, and little by little, he let Rooster in.
Rooster kisses Jake, deeper and more intense than before, like he’s hungry for it, like he needs it. “No more. I promise. Fuck, we need to slow down. Let me take you out tomorrow?”
“You’re tellin’ me you mean for us to sleep alone tonight?” Jake asks, looking unimpressed.
Rooster nods. “Yeah. Got it all planned out. I’ll drive you home, we’ll make out in the Bronco for ten minutes or so, I’ll walk you to your door. Text you tomorrow morning and tell you how fucking happy I am. Pick you up and take you to a nice dinner. Hell, you want flowers? I’ll get you flowers. Do you have a vase?”
Jake groans, then kisses him again. “God, my mama’s gonna love you. Fine, you can take me to dinner. This time. I didn’t spend all these years learning how to be a gentleman for nothin’, honey.”
“My turn first. I’m gonna open the door, pull out your chair, get the check,” Rooster says, pressing kisses to Jake’s cheeks.
“You’re such a pain in my ass,” Jake says, but he’s still holding Rooster tight.
Rooster laughs. “I’m such a gentleman, I’m just gonna sidestep right past that. My mama would have loved you too, you know. Part of why I wanted to get this right.”
He steps back and holds his hand out to Jake. “Lemme take you home, cowboy?”
Jake takes his hand. “You look good off of that perch, Bradley.”
“I am good,” Rooster says with a grin. “Too good to be true.”
“Okay,” Jake admits, “You’re right, that’s a little annoying. Let’s get goin’, darlin’. I was promised makin’ out in the front seat.
Rooster lets go of Jake’s hand to start cutting off lights. “Help me close up, and we may even make it to the back seat.”
Jake immediately starts looking for light switches. “Promises, promises.”
Rooster smirks. “I’m good for it.”
“Yeah,” Jake says. “Yeah, you are.”